


sign your name across my body (lose your innocence)

by Thegaygumballmachine



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Here we go boios, Lesbian Sex, Lesbians lesbianing, Sibling Incest, Spellcest Prompt Challenge, also many many headcanons, because she deserves it, headcanons galore, however there is: lots of loving Zelda, i promised you a sequel didn’t i??, no Bon Jovi this time you’re welcome, some (lots) of floral metaphors, the sin train has left the station, this is so not helpful I’m sorry, who tags for info anymore sure not me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 01:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18084548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thegaygumballmachine/pseuds/Thegaygumballmachine
Summary: “Zelds, your blood pressure.”“To heaven with my blood pressure. Come here and kiss me.”In which this author finally takes the plunge and writes some smut proper, and Hilda teaches Zelda some lessons.





	sign your name across my body (lose your innocence)

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to a certain someone for getting me to post this way early (thanks for being such an enabler, ily)!
> 
> I don’t really have many notes except that if you’re not looking for some soft smut concerning two consenting sisters you might want to back out now? I’m not saying you have to but you probably should...
> 
> (This is a direct sequel to my previous fic, so if you haven’t read that, do.)

It is entirely unsurprising that Zelda tries to take charge, then.

She surges forward, curls a rough hand into Hilda’s hair and kisses her, instead — bitingly unrelenting, and, if her surface thoughts are any indication, believing it to be the very same thing. It is, in its own peculiar fashion, rapturous, and Hilda allows her the time to explore.

The bitter irony is not lost on her, though she suspects it might be on her sister, who still naively believes herself to be so much more learned in the subjects of sex and seduction than Hilda could ever hope to be. She smiles, sighs, plays the captured. Zelda’s free palm slides feverishly over her hip, and the tension in the air builds to a far better purpose.

She thinks of horrid English beer and a litany of elegant redheads, and wonders at how long they’ve been fooling themselves.

Zelda pulls away. She is a study in breathlessness, in unresolved craving. Hilda gives her a hard stare and pins her hands to the chair back.

“Keep them there,” she says, and there is steel in it, but also its opposite softness, and Zelda does — it takes her a minute, but she seems to recognize that in this she has choice; that this is her decision to make.

By Hilda’s reckoning, the spell will stretch for another five minutes or so: it is beginning to wane, but she can’t imagine Zelda would want to lie to her now in any case, on the cusp of something she has so desired. Her pupils are blown, her lipstick smudged beyond repair, and Hilda doesn’t think she’s ever looked more delicious.

“We could go on like we have been,” she begins, “question and answer and all that, or you can tell me, because you want to, why dominating me is so important to you.”

She traces Zelda’s jawline reverently, keeping her touch light, and it gets a choked off whimper, unexpected and entirely involuntary if the way her brows have knit is any indication. The elder witch licks her lips, presses them together, and smoothes her features out to impassivity. It almost works, but for the passion in her eyes and the restlessness of her hands, and Hilda does have to applaud her for that.

It takes a very long time for Zelda to speak. Hilda keeps eye contact, keeps caressing her face and neck with fluid, slow motions.

“I don’t know how else to do it,” she whispers, and her voice cracks with it, with the weight of admitting it.

It’s then that Hilda realizes she is not only desperate, but _starved;_ starved for the touch and attention Hilda can bring her, the gentleness she doesn’t allow herself to need. The Church of Night breeds a very specific sort of repression — Zelda is rife with it, doesn’t even understand what Hilda sees plain as day.

She knows about Blackwood. She knows about Wardwell. She doesn’t think Zelda knows that she knows, or knows what it means.

She curls a lock of her sister’s hair around her index finger and follows it up to her scalp until she shudders.

“Let me show you, hm?”

——

She had planned to do this here, but while the idea of taking Zelda on the table, of making love to her where they all eat and laugh and cry so thoroughly that she’ll never be able to look at the runner the same way again is unconscionably appealing, upon further thought, this really deserves a bed. 

Zelda’s bed, to be precise. Identical to her own apart from the crumpled sheets and the smell of her everywhere, pressed deep into the comforter by years of routine. She waits for her to blink and there they are; the candles from Hilda’s earlier spellwork (a minor blessing, something she does from time to time when Sabrina is worryingly brash in her definition of independence) lend it a faint perfume of cinnamon, but otherwise it is exactly as she pictured it. 

Watching Zelda take it in, stiffen and then subsequently relax in Hilda’s hold and company, does something glaringly disproportionate to her composure. It’s her turn to shudder now, to let the setup wash over her and realize what she could do with it. 

She grins, giggles, and presses her sister back into the mattress, adjusting so that she sits square over Zelda’s hips. In a flash of pure indulgence she takes a moment to simply look at the picture before her, and then another, until time slips through her fingers in the rosy flush of those harsh, demanding cheekbones.

To her utter surprise, Zelda laughs too. It’s an unholy church bell against a silence that could so easily become stifling, and she looks happy for happiness’ sake, as if she has finally truly understood what this means, what Hilda wants. They’re smiling at each other and falling into each other and there is nothing but this, this single, perfect eternity.

Impulsively, Hilda leans in, steals the kiss she was promised before. It’s more giving than it is taking. She gives Zelda slow and quiet, like German rain, or, more recently, Greendale daisies.

Much like them, Zelda blooms for her trouble, bit by bit.

——

It is more complicated than she might like to rid Zelda of her clothing.

She’s in a skirt suit today — navy, with three quarter sleeves and textured wood buttons down the jacket. The shoulder pads are left over from the eighties, and Hilda loves her in them; has since that first twirl in the kitchen, since that green blazer that lasted all of two days before she set it on fire. In that and this she is formidable, not to be trifled with. 

Still, Hilda wants it gone.

She makes an effort to be slow with it, to punctuate each button slotted through its hole with a kiss, and for the most part she succeeds. Zelda is pliant and quiet and oh so receptive, and Hilda moves like nothing can touch her. Eventually, the jacket goes, and she slides it down lithe, athletic arms, skating her palms over the skin just to feel it move.

She has never once seen Zelda do anything resembling exercise; this is only one of many things that has always amazed her about her previously untouchable older sister. Though her well worn reverence takes new shape now that they’re on equal footing, she imagines it may be far better for both of them in the end.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, and, because she can’t exactly help it, trails kisses down the dip between Zelda’s breasts. Surprisingly, or perhaps not at all surprisingly, there is nothing but a lacy black bra between her and her next goal. 

This she has no qualms with ripping off; Zelda has hundreds of them, and they all look the same to Hilda anyway. She cares more about what’s underneath.

——

Zelda is impatient.

She is always impatient. Hilda is too. She will not yield, no matter the noise Zelda makes about it, no matter how much purr she puts into her voice for her breathy _please, sister_ or how enticing her nails are at Hilda’s still-clothed hip. Zelda needs to learn, and beyond that, to understand; she needs to be able to recognize the difference between religious worship and the regular kind, between fucking and making love, between Hilda and Blackwood and Wardwell and _Him._

“Hush,” she scolds, and Zelda emphatically does _not;_ she instead whines and sighs and makes to guide Hilda’s hands, canting her hips so that she can get some minimal amount of friction. 

_So dramatic._  

Shaking her head with a smile, Hilda again takes hold of her wrists and maneuvers them above her head. Her magic tingles at Zelda’s fingertips, and she seems to understand — she still, always, has her no on the tip of her tongue, and infinite permission to use it.

Until then, Hilda lavishes her neck and breasts and navel until she shakes, and there is no taking in this, only the gift, only the giving. Zelda’s power returned to her the moment they came to bed. 

She tastes of so many things, desperation and arousal and incense and cinnamon, and Hilda can’t begin to figure out the skirt and the garters and the other, slicker lace, so she ignores it all and burrows until her fingers meet velvet-wet skin. She teeters on the edge of overwhelm, and gives a quiet groan into Zelda’s neck, sucking at her pulse point as she slides two fingers inside.

“H-Hilda…”

“Careful now.” 

“I… Satan, you feel…”

She is so delicate, so open — Hilda cannot help but smile, and thank Satan she can’t see it. 

——

It is something of a shock to her that Zelda is so quiet.

From what Hilda’s heard (both through rumor and thin walls), she likes to make her pleasure well known to anyone in a three block radius. Now, here, she is near to silent, but for her unsteady breath and the occasional sigh. It strikes Hilda as peculiar until she gets to thinking about it, but it all slots into place rather quickly then.

That, the way she gives voice to her desire, is performance, both for the other party and their Dark Lord; these little huffs and gasps are all very real, very raw, and Hilda cherishes every one.

She drives in deeper, sucks harder, murmurs something about how lovely this is into creamy skin. Zelda tugs on her own hair, pants out a curse, and rocks her hips thoughtlessly into Hilda and her shockingly experienced fingers.

“So good,” she whispers, barely coherent, and Hilda chuckles; she doesn’t have to read anything to follow that train of thought, and it only reinforces how woefully unobservant her sister has been all these years.

“I am still a virgin, in the most technical sense,” she comments, throwaway, careless. “All those other girls… well, they weren’t.”

By way of reaction, Zelda drives her head into the pillows and gasps a stuttered ‘Lucifer, _Hilda_ ’, and if Hilda didn’t already know for a fact that she were well past the point of actual thought, that would have given her away. She kisses Zelda’s collarbone, messy with it now, and contorts so that her thumb presses against her clit _just so_ , secondhand pleasure vibrating through her own body with an intensity she can barely comprehend.

Zelda often spends a great deal of time on her mental walls; Hilda will only ever get the odd splash of emotion here and there, nothing of a complete picture. Throwaway thoughts are easier, though not by much — as a general rule, she only gets from Zelda what she wants to give, what she wants Hilda to feel and hear and experience with her.

As a general rule, she only gets from Zelda that which she thinks will hurt her best.

It takes one more twist of Hilda’s fingers, one good circle of her thumb, and she flies apart. They both do. It’s duller for her, but still transformative, still completely shocking to share with someone she has loved so much for so many years. To feel such bliss, such pure ecstasy radiating off this Zelda, _her Zelda,_ is almost too much. 

It’s a wonder she doesn’t pass out. Zelda nearly does. She’s breathing hard; a little _too_ hard. Her chest well and truly heaves, and it is not, as so many authors purport it to be, all that sexy.  

——

“Zelds, your blood pressure.”

“To heaven with my blood pressure. Come here and kiss me.”

No cause for concern, then.

She goes happily.

 ——

They lie together in the aftermath, Zelda’s arm around Hilda, thoughts commingling in a way that they have never done before. Hilda has nothing to ask, because she knows, knows how good this was for Zelda, how important.

She wonders if this would have happened with anyone else. It’s been decades since she’s done this and meant it.

Perhaps this is special to sisters.

Special to them.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever know. 

——

Zelda laughs through an aftershock, blows a lock of hair out of her face with a dreamy smile. She is content, for the first time possibly _ever_ in Hilda’s memory.

“Thank you,” she says, but doesn’t quite; an intangible whisper at the edge of her mind. 

Hilda loves her, so, _so_ much, and not in ways a sister should. 


End file.
